


Old Habits

by SaltedSultai



Series: If Only You Could Understand [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Old Men With Feelings, One Shot, Smut, maybe more on the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 13:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15729930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltedSultai/pseuds/SaltedSultai
Summary: Never thought my first contribution to this fandom would be this pairing... Ah, well. This idea is a direct response to a lot of things I see happening in the Overwatch fanfic community, specifically about Jesse. Anyways. I have more planned and it should make more sense as I add parts but school is demanding so idk if I'll put the updates up. We'll see.





	Old Habits

**Author's Note:**

> Never thought my first contribution to this fandom would be this pairing... Ah, well. This idea is a direct response to a lot of things I see happening in the Overwatch fanfic community, specifically about Jesse. Anyways. I have more planned and it should make more sense as I add parts but school is demanding so idk if I'll put the updates up. We'll see.

It all begins with an innocuous message in Jesse's inbox.

A simple, and dry: _We should talk._

Written out just like that. No subject, no greeting, and no signature. Three simple words staring at Jesse from the small blue window of his Overwatch-issued communicator. He’s lying on his side, fiddling with it as he usually does before bed, in the hopes the glare from the screen will make his eyes tired enough to fall shut. It’s a nightly ritual of Jesse's. Look through the old channels, like he’s still Blackwatch-employed. 

_Stay vigilant for chatter. You could never be too certain._

Of course there is never anything there. Nothing but ancient history, communications from fallen or forgotten colleagues almost a decade old. His old messages feel so empty now, he can scarcely recall the faces those email addresses belonged to. It’s just him, a tired pair of eyes, chasing ghosts. 

Being back on base does that to him. Gibraltar is quiet enough to make a man's skin crawl. Winston and Lena are doing their best to liven up the place, make the Recall feel like a fresh start and less like opening an old tomb. But Jesse knows there are too many memories in these halls for him to ever truly drop his guard. If he let himself, he could still list his old patrol hours, the code to ammo box in the shooting range, and the password to his Commanding Officer’s living quarters. 

Too many memories.

And now there’s this. The simple _We Should Talk_ blinking accusingly up at him from the screen. He remembers the email address, the man who sent knew he would.

_cornflower:channel.23497_

Everyone used code back then. But not everyone knew what all the codenames meant. They aren't exactly subtle, people can make pretty educated guesses, especially if you knew Reyes was the one who chose them all. 

Cornflower. Blue. Jack.

Or maybe _Soldier 76_ would be more accurate now. Since the Jack Morrison Jesse knew had died tragically in an explosion seven years ago. He had arrived just a week ago, and now he wants to _talk_.

Jesse _had_ wanted to talk to him, since the first minute he showed up on base. Jesse had been unspeakably angry on the helipad when the recalled agents had gone out to greet their newest edition. The nameless vigilante, Soldier 76. 

Lena and Winston had to know at least. 

The others: D.va, the kid from Brazil, and the Vishkar representative, hadn't even batted an eye. He just came out, mask firmly in place, limping with his chin held high. Like he still ran the joint. Like Jesse didn't know who was beneath that visor and cowl.

Jesse knew, but had nothing to say. All he could think of as Winston stumbled through the standard greetings was the funeral they had aired on TV after the Zurich explosion. How he had caught the end of it in some seedy bar in LA, and how no one during the broadcast had even mentioned Reyes’s name. 

Now: _We Should Talk._

How many lonely nights had Jesse spent awake, looking through his communicator, in some faraway southwestern shithole wishing for this exact message? It was almost fucking funny if it didn't hurt so much.

The timestamp _was_ less than a hour old. It would be so easy for Jesse to go to the room Winston had assigned him, and just… 

Just what?

They died. Jesse had moved on. He _grieved_ for them. He should stay put and let him play at being Soldier 76. Let them both just do their jobs. This isn’t worth his time. He had to think of the team, the Recall. The other agents flying in to do some good in the world. Those bastards in Talon. What Overwatch means now.

Jesse thinks of Overwatch, but all he can see is Strike Commander Morrison's face in effigy, twenty feet tall, on every holovid in every allied country across the world. News reports, articles, conspiracy theories, all trying to piece together what happened in Zurich, while Jesse himself knows more than anyone ever would.

Lena, Winston and the other Recalled agents, they’re trying to build something new out of the ashes. But those ashes are Jesse's home. He can't just forget. Lord knows he's been trying.

Maybe that's why a minute later, Jesse is struggling into a pair of pants, rethinking every step he had taken since abandoning Blackwatch. Since abandoning _them_.

Jesse stumbles into the hallway, barefoot, trying to get his bearings. He leaves his hat in his room.

Part of him will always be unprepared for the sight of the familiar gray-and-copper walls, funhouse-tall and layered in dust. All at once, Jesse is walking to the barracks for a nap, throwing around weights with Reinhardt and the other crusaders in the gymnasium… Punching in the code to the Strike-Commander’s room. Stilted shadows wearing familiar faces slither through his peripherals, and Jesse reaches for a sidearm he isn’t carrying, muscles coiling as hears cement crack and he smells gunpowder.

“You’re here. You’re _here_ ,” he says to himself, and when Jesse opens his eyes it’s to a vacant hallway lit with backlights. Winston’s still tinkering with the circuitry.

Jesse breathes, and slowly lets himself deflate, through the tension stays thrumming in his chest.

“Athena,” he calls, taking a confident step towards the end of the hall with the flickering light. “Which room did Winston assign Soldier 76 to?”

There was a moment before Athena’s cool monotone plays through the staticy speakers. _Agent McCree, Soldier 76 is staying in the East Wing. In Strike Commander Morrison’s old quarters. According to my files you already have clearance to enter that room. Do you need me to remind you of the passcode?_

“No thanks, darlin’, I'll be fine,” Jesse mutters. Of course that's where the big guy put him. Because this night isn’t already enough of a horrifying parade of memories.

Jesse’s on autopilot as he crosses the base, cutting through the empty mess hall, shouldering open the magnetic door that never locks, to arrive at the East Wing. 

The place is still eerily pristine, with its white walls and stainless steel doors. The layer of dust and scurrying insects are new, at least. The doors here are further apart, to accommodate the size of the living quarters. This is where all the big wigs used to stay on base. Jesse knows _his_ room will be the last one. The one with the view.

Fingertips hovering over the keypad next to the door, Jesse doesn’t have the chance to punch in the code before it slides open, revealing Soldier 76 in full dress: mask, cowl, and all.

“You came,” he says simply, voice gruff and familiar.

Jesse swallows nervously. 

After a brief moment of sizing each other up, Soldier 76 stands to the side and gestures for Jesse to enter.

Jesse’s legs move on their own accord, his mind a mixture of fuzzy images and static. He brushes past the other man, and the door slides shut behind him.

The room within reminds Jesse of a skeleton. The living area, kitchenette, bedroom, and wall-length window on the opposite side are identical to how Jesse remembers them from eight years ago. But something feels missing. It’s clear that 76 had just cleaned in here, there’s isn’t a spot of dust to be seen; everything is the same shade of sickly spotlessness. _‘Like bones plucked dry in the desert, left to bleach in the sun,’_ Jesse thinks.

It hasn’t been lived in at all. It smells like bleach.

“Drink?” Soldier 76 asks, trying for diplomacy. Jesse looks to the countertop he’s gesturing to, where the lone half-empty bottle of malt liquor stands solemnly beneath a single flickering light. Poetic.

“Pass,” Jesse says, stepping closer to the expansive window. The East Wing is deep in the base, so the living quarters are right against the cliff face looking out to the Gibraltar Sea. The Strike-Commander’s room is the only one with this view. The ocean outside is dyed silver-purple, a dark mirror of the night sky above. If Jesse listens, he can hear the waves crash against the rocks outside. _“Like being on a cruise ship, huh?”_ he had said once.

“Still a killer view,” Soldier 76 reaffirms, moving to stand next to Jesse. The respectful distance between them is no accident.

“Yeah.” Jesse says, the word feeling like sand on his tongue. There's so much to say, but all he can think of is snow white hair, and jagged scars that disappear past the red glass of an expressionless visor. Who is the soldier standing next to him? A vigilante? A hero? A criminal? He's reminded strangely of Reyes. Jesse feels like he's underwater.

Silence permeates the air around the two of them, while the ocean crashes against the cliffside below.

“What made you come back?” Jesse tries.

“The world needs heroes,” 76 says mechanically. Those words aren't his; they're Lena's. The thought pisses Jesse off.

“Where were you eight years ago? When _I_ needed you?” Jesse asks, quick and venomous. He turns to face Soldier 76, who startles at the movement.

“You left.” 76 replies, stance going defensive. His tone is neutral, but Jesse can hear the pain just below the surface.

“What choice did I have?” Jesse hisses, stepping into his space. “After… Ilios? How was I supposed to trust you? Or _him_?”

“I thought…” 76 deflates. “I thought I was handling it.”

“You didn't.” Jesse says, tone too sharp, on the cusp of dipping into something dangerously vulnerable. “You _cleaned up_. Swept everything away. Then you and him had the nerve to just go and.. and die.” Something cracks. Jesse's shaking now.

Soldier 76 seems uncertain on how to move, how to hold himself. He's watching the layers strip away to reveal the ugly, throbbing wound beneath.

“You were gone. I had no one. I couldn't even go to your damn _funeral_. I wasn't _there_.” Something in Jesse aches at remembering those desolate months after the news broke, how many nights he had stayed awake craving impossible, phantom touches. All the mistakes he was sure he made. “You left me all alone,” Jesse hears himself say, horrified at how watery he sounds. Salt stings his eyes, but he makes no move to wipe at them.

“I know,” 76 says, quiet and sincere.

“You don't fucking deserve my time.” Jesse doesn’t move when he hears the hiss of pressurized air as 76 takes off his mask. “You don't,” Jesse repeats. He wants to mean it.

“I know, Jesse. I know.”

That stings. Hearing his name being said. Jesse keeps his eyes shut, and lets the tears roll. 

“Just look at me,” Soldier 76’s voice wavers, like he already knows he’s been beaten. Jesse’s never heard him sound so low. 

“No,” Jesse means to sound firm, but it comes out as a conflicted whisper.

There's the warm pressure of a hand on his shoulder. “Jesse, please.”

Jesse looks, knowing it’s a mistake; the horrified gasp escapes him before he can stop it. The resemblance between Soldier 76 and the Jack Morrison Jesse remembers is uncanny. Cut jaw, severe frown, and heavy brow. But the _eyes_. Jesse had been able to see the beginnings of the scars even when the mask was on, but underneath…

Both of Soldier 76’s eyes are crisscrossed by a latticework of harsh white scar tissue, the skin around them taut, and discolored. Once infamously blue, enough so for Gabriel to make his codename Cornflower, they’re now cloudy and gray. 

“Jack,” Jesse begins, and as soon as that name passes his lips he knows it’s too late. He's slipping. He reaches out to touch, but the other man flinches away.

“I lost everything in Zurich.” Jack says slowly, expression forlorn and shell-shocked. “I lost Gabe, I lost myself. I'm honestly not sure how I survived. I want the Recall to mean something. I want—” he pauses, taking a shaky breath. “I don't want something like that to ever happen again.”

“I—” Jesse begins, but Jack holds up a hand to silence him.

“I know this doesn't make up for anything I, _we_ , did… But, I'm sorry, Jesse, for what happened. What we put you through. I'm so sorry.” Jack is on the very brink, Jesse can see his eyes cloud with tears. The old soldier takes a moment to compose himself. “We're both paying for our sins. The war’s not over. I need you to know I'm going to fix this, no matter what.”

Jesse knows that timbre in his voice. It's the kind that inspires people, that had once placated the United Nations. He’s being genuine, but it’s still a tactic. 

Soldier 76 needs Jesse to atone. He can’t justify any of it: the Recall, the vigilantism, without his approval. He can’t be _Jack_ again until Jesse lets him. 

_‘He don't deserve it.’_ Jesse thinks, as he takes a step closer. Everything fell apart in the end. It had been so painful, like he was losing a part of himself forever. They left Jesse with _nothing_. But, even so… Jesse can remember when it was _good_ , or at the very least easy. He moves in closer, enough to touch.

Jack’s posture is withered, head hanging in shame. They're the same: tired of being alone. Jack is the only person on the planet who knows his pain, what was really lost in that explosion at the Swiss base.

So, against his better judgement, Jesse hugs him.

Even more surprisingly, Jack hugs him back.

Being crushed into the solid warmth of someone's chest is a sensation Jesse sorely missed. Touching _Jack_ again dredges up long-buried memories of nights tangled up together in this very room. The thoughts fill him with a mixture trepidation and warmth. _'I shouldn't have this,’_ Jesse thinks, but he lets himself indulge. Everything is so familiar as his hands wander from Jack’s shoulders down his arms, the carved body he feels beneath the jacket darkly comforting. Solid. Here. It's like stepping back in time. He isn't in a room that smells like bleach, and Jack isn't as gray. He never died. Jesse has no reason to feel this choking guilt.

The fantasy ends when Jesse catches Jack's ruined eyes blankly searching for his own. The gunslinger shudders, and rests his head on Jack's shoulder. If only it were that simple.

“I missed this.” Jesse lets himself admit, the two images of Jack, past and present, wheeling violently in his head. “A lot.” Jesse's lips taste the skin on Jack's neck.

The other man shudders like he’s being electrocuted. “Jesse…” he begins, voice a hoarse rasp. His grip on Jesse tightens.

“I'm being selfish,” Jesse says slowly, feeling one of Jack's hands settle at the back of his neck.

“Maybe.” The older man whispers, making no attempts to move.

Jack’s fingers are playing with the ends of his hair, and Jesse lets out a shaky breath as his eyes slip close. “I'm not over you. Or him.” The words are barely audible but he knows Jack can hear him.

“We made a lot of mistakes,” Jack murmurs, his other hand sliding lower on Jesse’s back. The _'with you’_ goes unspoken as their thighs knock together.

“I'm still mad as hell, think I always will be…” Jesse can hear the other man catch his breath in anticipation. “But, you're here now.” His words are soft, and he's holding Jack like he might disappear again. “I've been on my own for too long.”

“Me too,” Jack says, his voice cracking.

Jesse isn't sure how they manage it, but his lips are on Jack’s and they’re firmly kissing. It’s as desperate as it is placid; two sets of mouths locking together, unsure of how to move forward. Jack is cradling Jesse's face, and Jesse has his fists gripping the lapels of the other man's coat. Holding each other close, desperate for touch, for friction, but unwilling to cross the threshold into practiced intimacy.

They split apart, eyes searching each other's faces. 

“Jesse we shouldn’t—”

_“Please.”_

Jack can't move. He seems stricken. “Jesse, my eyes, without my visor I can't really—”

_“Please,”_ he breathes again, moving into the other man's space. Begging is an old, but surefire tactic with them. “God, Jack, just… take care of me again. Don't push me away.” Jesse hates how needy he sounds. How vulnerable he is now. How much he wants this again. “I just… I need _this_.”

Jack visibly gulps. His thumbs trace Jesse's cheeks, pausing at the creases in the corners of his eyes to wipe at the tears. They’ve both changed so much. 

“Don't leave me alone again,” Jesse whispers, feeling incredibly small.

The words hang in the air like icicles and Jack goes rigid. His fingers dig into Jesse, as if he needs to be reminded that he's still there. His stance straightens.“Alright.” Jack says, voice dropping into a firm, familiar tone. “I’m all yours, baby boy.” The pet name sends a shudder through Jesse, his body moving in a practiced dance.

Everything seems to be happening all at once.

Jesse’s rushing in to fill the space between them, like this is his first time all over again, and Jack’s beginning to pull the heavy jacket off his shoulders, while Jesse kisses him hard as can. Jack's mouth stays in a firm, unyielding line. Jesse hasn’t earned it yet. Even so, the slick of skin on skin makes him hungry for more.

Jack steps away for a moment, and shrugs out of the leather coat completely. The black compression shirt he’s wearing underneath leaves little to imagine.

Jesse starts with his hands on Jack’s pecs, reveling in the firmness he feels while moving in for another kiss. Jack keeps his head to side so all Jesse gets is cheek. Jesse knows. He kneads at muscles on Jack's chest, hands ghosting over his sides and abdomen. Reveling in the body he feels, worshipping him.

“I wanna see you,” Jesse breathes, eagerly pulling at the hem of Jack's compression shirt.

“Where are your manners?” Jack asks, the phrase still carrying the bite Jesse remembers.

“ _Please_ , I want to see you.” Jesse repeats, dropping his hands to his sides and dipping his chin down into a bow. Falling into familiar roles.

“Please what?” Jack asks, using two fingers to tilt Jesse's chin up so their eyes meet.

“ _Sir_ ,” Jesse all but whispers, goosebumps traveling up his arms at Jack's pleased expression. Something electric is in his blood now, and the rest of the world seems to be falling away.

Jack whips the black garment off his head in one smooth motion, unveiling a canvas of scars and pale, sculpted muscle. Jesse luxuriates in all he can't yet touch, as Jack drops his pants so he's clad only in a pair of tight black, briefs. Jesse's eyes rove over all the exposed skin, familiar and yet all-too new. Jack tilts his head to the side in a beckoning gesture, and Jesse needs no further permission.

Jesse kisses at the spots where he knows Jack is sensitive, and he finds new places as his hands explore the divots and valleys of Jack's body. The man keeps his posture commanding, but Jesse can feel the way he’s beginning to uncoil. It's getting harder for Jack to disguise his moans, and soft breaths. Part of Jesse wants to see him completely undone, but most of him needs Jack to stay tall, to remind him of why he's here. Jesse leaves love bites where appropriate and mumbles things like _'So good, Thank You’_ into Jack's skin. Jack rubs encouragingly at his shoulders, and then begins to tug at the flannel Jesse's wearing in earnest when he feels teeth scrape lightly over his nipple.

“This. I want it off,” Jack orders, tugging at it again.

Jesse hurries to do undo the buttons, and Jacks helps him, the ratty flannel joining Jack’s shirt on the floor. Knowing Jack can’t see him too well, Jesse steps closer, kisses his cheek, and then slowly slides down onto his knees. Jesse lets his beard scrape against Jack’s exposed abdomen on the way down, so he knows exactly what’s to come.

Jack shudders in anticipation, giving a pleased hum.

He starts slow, nosing the top of Jack’s thigh, hands running gently over the backs of Jack's legs. Jack shifts his stance, releasing a pleased sigh at Jesse's actions. Feeling emboldened, Jesse's hands reach up, each getting a plush handful of the soldier’s ass. Jack grunts at that, knotting his fingers in Jesse's hair immediately, and punishingly shoves the bulge in his pants into Jesse's face. 

“You know better,” Jack growls, pulling Jesse's head back. 

“S-sorry,” Jesse stutters out, the sensation of his hair being pulled making it hard to think straight.

Jack gives something almost like a snarl and continues to force the bulge in his briefs to drag along Jesse's lips. Jesse tries mouth at it, but Jack doesn't give him the opportunity.

“Say what you're gonna do, boy,” Jack orders, fingers digging into Jesse's scalp pleasantly.

“Suck your cock,” Jesse says, voice muffled by the cloth of Jack's underwear.

Jack pulls Jesse's head back again, who's breath catches when he feels the especially sharp tug. Jack's looking down at him, one eyebrow quirked, waiting.

“Gonna suck your cock, _Sir_ ,” Jesse says, slow and dream-like.

“That's right,” Jack growls, hooking a thumb in the waistband of his underwear and tugging it down. His cock springs free, and Jesse keens at the sight. Jack then runs the head of his dick messily over Jesse's lips, who moans softly at the rough treatment. “Cmon, baby,” Jack whispers, pushing it against the seam of his mouth without actually going inside. “Where are those manners?” His fingers wind tighter in Jesse’s hair to remind him.

“Please, _Sir_ ,” Jesse manages to choke out.

Jack ends the torture with a thumb on Jesse's lower lip as he guides his cock into the younger man's waiting mouth. It's not exactly gentle, but Jesse wouldn't want it any other way. Jesse takes a minute to adjust before completely slacking his jaw, letting Jack fuck his mouth in slow, practiced strokes.

“You're so good, baby,” Jack says, the praise making Jesse's thoughts fuzzy. He keeps both hands on the back of Jesse's head, easing him up and down his cock, while giving Jesse time to breathe through his nose at the end of each stroke. The sounds Jesse's making are muted, but Jack can hear them, and each time he does the tempo increases. 

Eventually, he slides into Jesse's mouth all the way to the root, and Jesse's gags involuntarily as Jack's cock brushes the back of his throat. Jack groans softly, dick pulsing as he hurries to pull himself out of Jesse's mouth before he finishes. “Not yet, baby,” Jack pants, his cock red and dripping inches from Jesse's face.

The lack of action leaves Jesse feeling frayed and alone. He can hear the ocean again. “Please, don't stop,” he whispers, as the tide seems to rise. “Please, _Sir_ , I want you to finish.”

One of Jack's hands slides down Jesse's face to cradle his jaw. A thumb swipes along Jesse's lower lip, slicking itself on spit and precome. “You want me to cum?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jesse says, shuddering. His own cock is tented and straining in his pants, achingly hard. There aren't supposed to just _Stop_.

Jack pauses, like he's conflicted. 

The silence is creeping in, making Jesse think. He didn't come here to _think_ , he came here for… for… 

The waves crash outside.

“Alright,” Jack whispers, saving Jesse from the deafening lack of sound. In an instant, he's easing himself back in, and Jesse hums in appreciation. 

The thoughts lift away.

They find their rhythm, Jack canting his hips at a much faster pace, and Jesse gagging as he tries to keep up. It's relentless, but it's _good_. Jack's cock hits the back of Jesse's throat one final time before he's struggling to hold back his release. Jesse keeps himself firmly in place, and Jack shoots down Jesse's throat with a deep, satisfied groan.

Jack takes a moment to catch his breath, slowly easing out of Jesse's mouth. Jesse knows he's a sight, but he can't bring himself to lift his head, to think. The raging erection in his pants is like an afterthought. He trusts Jack to take care of it. That's how it goes. How he needs it to go.

A beat passes before Jack is pulling Jesse to his feet, pressing their lips together in thanks. Jesse is too dazed to really reciprocate. “On the bed, I wanna feel you.” Jack says, hands on Jesse's shoulders, guiding him to lay on the king size mattress adjacent to them.

That's something he can do. 

Jesse moves mechanically, the taste of spend bitter on his tongue. He collapses, near-falling on his back, and Jack joins him. They lay together as Jack's fingers gently trace Jesse's slicked lips before ghosting down his throat. “Still here?” Jack asks softly.

Jesse makes an affirmative noise, doing his best to gather himself.

Jack's hands dip lower, finding his sensitive spots, tracing familiar pathways. Jesse quivers under the ministrations, tension bleeding out of his body. He doesn’t have to think, he can focus on the way his skin sparks when Jack touches him. A pleasured warmth forms in his belly, knowing someone is _looking_ at him, caring about him. The old soldier’s hand pauses at the trail of hair at his navel, fingers splayed, waiting for permission. 

“ _Please_ ,” Jesse croaks.

Jack kisses his temple softly, in a rare display of tenderness, and deftly undoes the belt with one hand. Jesse shudders, curling himself closer into the firm pillow of Jack’s shoulder. Together, with Jesse guiding Jack’s hands, they slip his pants and underwear off in one go. 

Jesse lets out a steady breath, the ease from before prickling to anxiety. He feels too open, as if he wants too much.

“Let me take care of _you_ ,” Jack whispers knowingly into Jesse's hair. His fingertips ghost around the line of Jesse's hips, dipping lower and brushing against the length of his throbbing cock. Jesse whimpers, and Jack chuckles. “I’m right here, baby, let _go_.”

That does it. Jesse goes limp, letting Jack have whatever he wants. It’s familiar, it’s _safe_. Jack brings their mouths together, kissing him; _really_ kissing him. His tongue pushes against the seam of Jesse's lips and Jesse is more than happy to oblige. The feeling of being so _wanted_ is a heady sensation, and Jesse can feel himself slip down somewhere dark and warm. His eyes are closed as Jack runs his fingertips along Jesse's dick.

“God, _yes_ ,” Jesse moans, as Jack begins to stroke him off in slow, even strokes. 

They stayed tangled for a while, languidly kissing, Jack bringing Jesse closer to the edge. 

“Sir,” Jesse says, pulling away for a moment. “I want—”

“I think I know,” Jack purrs, voice both gravely and warm. He releases Jesse's cock, fingers dipping lower, past his balls and stopping at the cleft of his ass. “This, right?” He rubs gently at the entrance. 

Jesse nods mutely.

“Stay still, baby,” Jack whispers, pulling Jesse closer to him. With his other arm he fumbles through the drawer in his nightstand until he produces a small, transparent bottle. Holding it in hand, Jack guides Jesse to fully lay on top of him, head pillowed on his pecs, and nudges Jesse’s thighs apart with his own. Jack has a couple inches on Jesse, so when they lay slotted together, it’s nearly perfect. Jack slowly rutting up into Jesse's belly, while Jesse's own cock drags deliciously along Jack's thigh.

“Better.” Jack says, snapping open the cap on the lube. He coats his fingers with a generous amount, and gently begins to drag them around Jesse's entrance. Once he's coated it enough, Jack gently pushes his middle finger inside to the first knuckle.

Jesse stiffens at the intrusion, it's been a while, but Jack is there whispering encouragements while he begins to slow process of stretching Jesse out. 

“Easy, baby boy, nice and easy,” Jack says, the baritone of his voice reverberating in his chest. Jesse can feel himself drifting.

Jack pushes a second finger in, and crooks them, a moan spilling from Jesse's mouth as a small wave of sparks travel up his spine.

“Good?” Jack asks, fingering him painfully slow.

Jesse nods, lifting his hips. _Faster_.

Complying, Jack slowly picks up the pace, and the pleasure builds in Jesse's lower back before traveling through his body like dull electricity. Jesse's lost, voice reduced to shallow breaths and broken moans. He's bringing his hips up to meet Jack's fingers, and rutting into the other man's thigh on the way down.

“There you go, that's it,” Jack huffs, his own cock rubbing slickly against Jesse's stomach. Their bodies ride together, Jesse snapping his hips faster the more Jack plays with his ass.

Jesse feels those fingers brush against his prostate one more time, and as his orgasm wells up inside, he raises his head and catches Jack's mouth in a sloppy kiss. Jack swallows his breath, and the needy noises they're both making, as Jesse shoots ropes of cum across Jack's abdomen. Not a moment later, Jack seizes up, adding his own slick to the mess, painting their chests with messy white streaks.

There's not a word about cleanup as Jesse collapses bonelessly onto Jack's chest. He gets comfortable in the curve of Jack's shoulder as the older man folds his arms protectively around him. Jack was never a clingy bedmate, but Jesse is silently grateful. The pressure of the embrace helps keep Jesse anchored, even though he feel his mind drift up somewhere into the stratosphere.

Jack shifts, his hand running up into Jesse’s mussed hair. “Still here?” he asks, voice unusually quiet.

“Yeah,” Jesse whispers tiredly, the hum of static in his brain making his eyes slip close. 

Laying there with Jack, warm from sex, seems to be enough. That night, if only for a moment, Jesse's mind is quiet, his demons kept at the door.


End file.
